


Honestly

by Celtic_Knot



Category: Hakuouki
Genre: Blood, Emotional Baggage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 11:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4826747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celtic_Knot/pseuds/Celtic_Knot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The blood on Souji is not his own. That is something to be grateful for. But there is so much of it, and he hates the frustration and pain he can read in the spatter. Each droplet that had burst against Souji’s skin screams of the agony that had driven each swing of the sword. </i>
</p><p>Souji will never admit it, but Saitou understands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honestly

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own Hakuouki, nor did I in any way contribute to its creation. All rights go to their respective owners.
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** Blood, emotional baggage, hurt/comfort, blood, Souji's illness, and the usual Saitou/Souji sorrow. 
> 
> This takes place after Souji drinks the ochimizu, but before Kondo is killed. I wanted to focus more on the emotional cost rather than the actual illness this time.
> 
> ** The little intro part is Souji's POV, and then it switches to Saitou's. That should be pretty clear in the writing itself, but here's a head's up. **

 

* * *

 

 

There are times when control is pried from your fingers, and hurled out of reach. When no amount of scrabbling around in the dirt will allow you to regain it. But as terrible as losing control is, at least there isn’t room for regrets. There had been nothing else you could have done, you were powerless. Taking the ochimizu wasn’t one of these events. It had been a _choice._ Maybe not a great one, but a choice he made. A choice he is going to live with until his life falls away and he ceases to live at all. It’s not like he didn’t wait it out as long as he could. But diseases don’t really obey no matter how many times they’re told to fuck off. Centimeter by painful centimeter he had lost more and more. Weight, muscle, blood, breath. And so many other things that can’t be cut by a blade, or measured in your hands. All gone. He’d become useless to Kondo-san and nothing but a disappointment to himself. To die like that… To be swallowed whole by illness before he ever got to accomplish what he had set out to do would be unforgivable. He could feel something within him scream against needles of helplessness that drove through his hands and lungs, threatening to pin him to his bed.

Ochimizu offered a bargain. The shady kind that parents always advise their children not to take, but he’d never really listened to those lectures. He’ll still die young, that’s a promise. He might lose his mind, just because Heisuke and Sannan-san haven’t yet doesn’t guarantee him anything. But it gave him more time, and enough strength to wield a sword. The burn of bloodlust is not so different from the burn of blood being forced up his throat. Really the only difference is the intended direction of said blood. Not an important detail in the grand scheme of things.

Furies are monsters. Distinctly inhuman, yet not quite demons either. But choosing the path of being a sword has already robbed him of the right to call himself human, so no loss there. He pauses for half a second. If there’s no loss, then why is Kondo-san looking at him as though there’s this catastrophically empty distance between the two of them? Something has been lost in translation. This is nothing new, other than the fact that it was entirely unintentional this time.

“Souji.” Kondo-san is upset, hurt. He’s tugging at threads trying to understand, but they’re all already unraveled. Nothing but a knotted ball of dead ends. “Why did you take it? I need to know why you did it.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s not the ochimizu he’s apologizing for. Gaining one more second to serve Kondo-san is something he’ll never regret. But his sister had always taught him that you say you’re sorry when you hurt someone. Pretty much useless advice when you make a living off hurting and killing. But Kondo-san is Kondo-san, and he can’t offer him an answer that will satisfy him. So ‘I’m sorry’ is the best he can do, however inadequate it may be. Telling him he did this for him would only make it worse. Not only that, it would be half a lie. That thought shocked Souji the first time he had had it while lying in bed shivering from the sweat he’d worked up changing from human to fury. It had ricocheted around his mind, bruising him with the force of lies, truths, and other thoughts that slip somewhere in-between.

Everything is for Kondo-san, but there is some part of himself, some tiny piece that he hasn’t been able to throw away. It says stupid things to him, like he has more to live for than just Kondo-san. That there are other things he needs to see through. He’s on an inescapable path toward a wretched death of blood and ash. It couldn’t be more fitting actually. He’ll leave this world in a bang of blood and fire, vaguely reminiscent of the place where many of his opponents have sworn he came from. One other person briefly comes to mind when he thinks of his demise, but that person is not important at this exact moment in time. Every person that touches your life becomes the keeper of however many seconds, minutes, hours, days, years. This time belongs to Kondo-san. Just like most of his time always has.

“You’re sorry? You didn’t have to do it, Souji.” He sighs, hand pressing against the back of his neck before dropping limply to his side. “If you gave your body more time, more rest. Maybe you could have-“

Souji laughs and shakes his head.

Laughter is the last thing Kondo-san wants to hear from him. This is serious. They’re talking life altering decisions here. But isn’t it also funny? How much rest didn’t help? How easy the transition from human to fury had been? Trading one kind of bodily pain for another doesn’t matter. Pain is just a part of everyday life, there’s no way to avoid that. And the mental change… Well there wasn’t exactly much of one (he doesn’t pause long on what exactly that implies). A tiny sliver of relief has slinked in, that’s about it. Relief is not remotely close to what anyone who just sold their humanity for a few more grains of sand in the hourglass would be feeling. But the way Kondo-san is looking at him now, as though he can see all the ugliness Souji has been cultivating since he was a mere child… This might be the closest Kondo-san has ever come to really _seeing_ him. Becoming a fury has pushed some things into plain sight that he never intended to let Kondo-san see. That giant gap between them, all the darkness that fills it… It’s a more accurate an image of him than an artist could ever produce. No precise brush stroke, or steady hand could represent him as well as simply hurling black ink at the canvas. All of this is depressing in one sense, freeing in another.

Causing Kondo-san pain is the last thing that he wanted, but now he can pour all his energy into every second of bloodshed he’s still capable of causing. No need to put anymore into trying to keep up illusions of a person who never existed. It’s hard to take all of the intricacies of one person, and split the good and the bad into two. There’s the person he is, and the person he allows Kondo-san to believe he is. Hijikata-san can tell the difference. He thinks that’s one of the many reasons the two of them argue so often. Hijikata-san has always known he’s no better than the beasts Kondo-san preaches against. Strong convictions, high morals, and all that. Hijikata-san is more practical. Souji is a shit, hard to control. But there’s a usefulness about someone who has misplaced their conscious.

Kondo-san is at a loss for words. Tight lipped, fists clenching around frustration and the kind of anger reserved for someone you truly care about. The kind that flares up, fanned by your desire for someone to love their self as much as you love them. They could go around and around for days, circling words like _monster, murderer, tuberculosis,_ and _death_ but never dragging them out into the open. He’s done with this. The damage is done. He may not ever be truly forgiven. Even people with seemingly endless patience run out of second chances to give. They run out of faith to dump into a person who continuously runs it ground, and stomps on the shreds that remain.

If he has to listen to anymore, if he has to look into Kondo-san’s eyes and see himself reflected alongside dismay... Nope. No more. This is the first time he’s turned his back on Kondo-san, even if it’s just to walk into a different room. It’s selfish, but he’s too numb to care.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

More and more it seems as though there is a thread tying him, Souji, and death together. Weaving in one and out of the other until it is difficult to tell where he ends and Souji begins. He can feel it draw tighter still when he sees Souji coated in blood and pride. The sight of blood and Souji go hand in hand. Though, it is not as friendly of relationship now as it once was. There is less triumph and more betrayal. Every wet cough is mocking and terrible. That is what the ochimizu had been for. To trade one poison for another. Saitou had doubted from the beginning that it would be possible to use it as a fix. And it hadn’t been. Toxicity tends to compound, not cure. For a short time it appeared as though it had purged disease from veins, replacing it with inhuman power. But the illness clawed its way back in. It continues wrecking Souji’s body quicker than ochimizu can repair it.

The sight of Souji now could nearly be mistaken for one of an earlier day. It would be enough to fool anybody but Saitou. The blood on Souji is not his own. That is something to be grateful for. But there is so much of it, and he hates the frustration and pain he can read in the spatter. Each droplet that had burst against Souji’s skin screams of the agony that had driven each swing of the sword. Emotions do not belong attached to a blade, but he can hardly blame Souji. Not now. Not when killing is a form of comfort. Souji can see his own worth reflected in the glassiness of lifeless eyes.

He knows Souji would never kill someone whose death would be detrimental to the Shinsengumi. It’s still pushing the borders of acceptable behavior, but he cannot scold him for this. There is a reason that it is him who sees Souji like this. Who gets to be the one he comes to when he’s breaking into pieces, and does not know how to put them back together.

Saitou knows what needs to be done.

He is armed with basin and cloth when he guides Souji into his room. There is a familiarity in this strange bloody scene. They have always had each other’s backs. Watching, guarding. He is not the type of person who can build such relationships easily. Saitou works well with others, it is his duty to do so. But what he found in Souji years ago pushes him to go beyond what he is required to do. Nobody is asking this of him, not even Souji himself. But that does not stop him.

Kneeling in front of Souji he dips the rag into the water. It’s regretfully cold, nipping his knuckles with an aching stiffness. There had been no time to warm it up, and he cannot leave Souji looking like he just slaughtered a cow. His face seems like the natural place to begin with. There is no blood smeared around his mouth or chin, he hadn’t drank any. Saitou cannot help but feel relief stretching its wings in his chest. The blood doesn’t resist being wiped away, if only the same could be said for pallidness underneath. He unconsciously presses harder against the grayness that lingers on cheek bones. It won’t come off, but the scrubbing motion leaves a slight pinkness that has been missed. Each steady motion reveals more of Souji’s face. Eyes vanish behind the rag. When they reappear they’re watching carefully, waiting for Saitou to show any signs of judgement, of disgust.

“Hajime-kun,” Souji’s wry tone breaks the silence. His hand pauses, but does not drop from Souji’s cheek. “Aren’t you going to ask what happened?”

“I am fairly certain I know what happened.”

This is what he expected. Souji is _seeking_ blame, seeking hatred. He is unsure if this is self-punishment for disappointing Kondo-san, for the ochimizu… Or if it has more to do with Souji’s approaching demise. He strikes out with snapping rage that lulls into quiet sullenness. There is loneliness, but also purposeful distancing. Yet for all the times he has tried to close himself off, he continues to return to Saitou with palms open. This is fine. Souji is a comrade, and he should not have to be all alone. The others spend less and less time on Souji. They look at his fading body and judge him to be too far gone. A fury, and an invalid. It is not as though they have stopped caring, more than that it has become too hard. Nobody wants to see someone they have spent years with collapse further and further inside of disease until there is nothing left. There is too much death around them already. They do not require another reminder of their mortality. But Saitou will stay. Abandoning Souji now is not an option. This is one more thing he is determined to see through to the end.

“You already know?” Souji tilts his head. His voice is lighthearted on the surface, but there is rumblings of a threat just below. “Do you already know that I sliced up seven men because they looked at me wrong? I chopped them into pieces.”

“They were enemies of the Shinsengumi.” He drags the cloth down the back of Souji’s neck and presses. The coolness offers some small relief from the fevered heat. Souji shifts into the touch. “And you didn’t drink any blood.”

“You know me too well~” He’s grinning, but it is hollow. If he were to trace his fingers over Souji’s lips the illusion would shatter into the minuscule bits of former happiness that Souji tries to shape into a mask to conceal torment.

“We’ve known each other for quite some time.”

There’s a vague hum in reply.

He has moved on to Souji’s chest now. The last area of skin that is stained red. His clothes are additional casualties. No amount of washing will get them clean enough. This is hardly a concern worthy of pause, though. Once the task at hand is complete he will lend Souji something to sleep in, and dispose of the soiled clothing. Cleaning up messes always seems to fall to Saitou. He has no complaints.

Souji’s chest contains numerous problems. The blood of those seven men disappears with each motion of Saitou’s hands. It is far from permanent, just like the lives it once belonged to. The blood may be an easy fix, but something else is not. The emotional toll climbs higher and higher. Souji will never reveal it outright. He clutches onto what little control he has left.

But Saitou can still tell. Every hitching breath that is filled with more self-loathing than oxygen. Every tremble that starts from weakness and ends in rage. There are hundreds of signs to be read. Souji squares his shoulders against the weight of disappointment, and Saitou can see the strained knots that tie around the memory of strength but are unable to reproduce it. His heart does not break for Souji. Broken hearts are foreign to him. Abstract and intangible. This is different, it goes beyond his heart. For all a heart is, it is still only one single part of the body. There is a little of Souji in every corner of him. Very real, and very present. Those pieces of Souji wedged inside him would surely shred him from within if he dared to pity Souji. But for all the understanding they hold between them, he is not capable of reading every line of Souji’s inner dialog. It is not always easy to convince Souji to speak with truthful insight. But what he does not say (and what he twists around), that is a form of honesty in in its own right.

“I have no desire to pass judgement on your actions.” He folds the rag in precise quarters, placing it by the basin. “But I would like to ask one thing.”

“Hmm, and what would that be Hajime-kun?”

“Are you certain you did it for Kondo-san?”

Souji’s eyes go wide, but he is well versed in smoothing out surprise. He is masterful at switching out his true emotions for biting humor that is so dark that many may wonder if there is anything inside of him other than shades of death and laughter. Saitou knows better. Souji knows he knows. They have been each other’s exceptions for a long time now.

“Of course it was. “ Fingers snake around his wrist, one coming to rest directly over his pulse. “I’m running on a tight schedule. The more people I can kill off the less Kondo-san will have to deal with.”

The words are correct. Perfectly aligned with the script Souji has been crafting since he was a boy. But the actions are wrong. They wail when they grind up against truth. Souji’s mouth says that everything he does is for Kondo-san. But his hand had reached out for Saitou. Words and actions do not always have to be a matched pair. But this in unintentional on Souji’s part. People are not static. Change pulls them along willingly, or unwillingly. These changes are dragging Souji along rocky ground, cutting and bruising him. Souji has had to accept the decline of his body. Insistent pains, barking coughs, and tiredness that will never climb out of his bones.

These are all things Saitou has watched Souji be _forced_ to acknowledge. He cannot deny that his body is not what it used to be. But his mind, his feelings, his thoughts. Those are changing too. And Saitou has never seen Souji appear _lost_ the way he does now. Souji has misplaced himself, picking up hidden thoughts when he reaches for his usual words. That is frightening. Losing yourself within your own being. How can you find something that is not distinguishable from its surroundings? What is the truer form of himself, the things he hides, or the ones he forces to the surface? Likely it is a combination between the two. A balance that Souji tries to grasp onto, but Saitou watches it slide through his blood slicked fingers.

“Souji.” He can help. He knows about Souji, and he knows about finding certainty. He will guide him, will show him every bit of himself that reflects all the best parts of Souji.

Souji leans in just a little closer at the sound of his name on Saitou’s lips. This is what Saitou intended. Each syllable filled with just as much steady certainty as he has always spoken it with. It has Souji’s attention, lips quirking up just a bit. His eyes light with an anticipation Saitou has grown fond of seeing. Fondness is dangerous. But they have come this far in whatever kind of relationship one would call this. They are blades, sharp and deadly. Still, Saitou would like to think that they protect each other. That is not to say they haven’t also accidentally cut each other. It is impossible to get this close to a razor like edge without drawing blood. And yet they have offered each other more than pain and blood. Saitou will extend another offer now.

When he reaches for Souji hands come up to grasp his forearms, bracing the weight of a weakened body, but still managing to meet him halfway. When their lips touch it is softer than usual. His hands slide across Souji’s back until he is holding him in what resembles a hug. Forceful kisses are nice, but he wants to build it up slowly. There is something soothing about making Souji work through each individual moment of their lips sliding against each other. Time is unforgiving at best, cruel at worst. Souji is rushing toward his own destruction, but this slows him down. Saitou will not yield to grazing teeth, or aggressive pressing. _Slowly. You are alive, enjoy it._ The frustrated tension in the muscles under his fingers begins to recede. This is better. One hand slides up to the side of Souji’s neck, tracing the flow of life and breath. He is rewarded with lips leaving his to find his cheek. It is almost perversely sweet. He had wanted Souji to take his time. And he is now. Souji has always been excellent at reading Saitou’s intentions and taking them just a step too far.

He tries to find Souji’s lips again, but they insist on falling everywhere except on his own. His brow bone, his nose, back up to his forehead, and down to his chin. Sometimes with a touch of tongue, other times only the faintest press of lips. Saitou sighs, and works while he waits. Trailing his hands up and down Souji’s back, palms pausing to press on shoulders until there is less space between them. His collar is yanked sharply just as Souji finally comes back to his mouth. Saitou presses firmer, stronger. Fingers curl tightly into his biceps. Almost painful, but not quite. When he opens his mouth he hopes Souji can taste his own worth on Saitou’s tongue. Because he has a goal in mind. He will pull everything away, peel off bitterness, poison, and misery until Souji can recognize himself once more. Ochimizu had shattered the warped mirror he had had in Kondo-san, but replaced it with another distorted viewing glass that must be smashed.

There is a more crystalline clarity in what Saitou can show him. Seeing yourself is not often a pleasant experience. More often than not you will see faults and regrets glaring back at you. The image worse than what you expected. It is not that way for Souji. He has seen himself through the sharp disparity between Kondo-san’s expectations and reality for so long that he sees damage and defects that are not really there. Or at least are not as unforgivable as he believes them to be. Honesty has never run short between them. There are many things about Souji that are broken, but that does not mean that there is not room for a little more appreciation. For Souji to look at Saitou looking at him and realize that the ochimizu has not disgraced him, tuberculosis has not devalued him.

Maybe illness cannot touch intrinsic value, but it can touch lungs. That is painfully obvious when Saitou is pushed an arm’s length away, and coughs tear out of Souji’s throat in quick succession. There is some part of Saitou that wrenches with every drop of blood sprayed, and the tightening of every line on Souji’s face. These moments are too loud. Coughing hisses Souji’s untimely demise into his ears. No matter how strong Souji’s convictions are, this illness may still be stronger than him. That is numbing. Saitou has always been aware that there are times when you are not enough, your best cannot overcome what will come to pass. Never before has it been as poignant as it is now. The coughs fade into gasping breaths as Souji rests his forehead against his. He curls his fingers into shoulders, squeezing and releasing in time with slowing breaths.

These motions are not only for Souji’s benefit. The more of himself he can fold into Souji, the less it feels as though uselessness is coming to wrap its fingers around both of their throats.

“Sorry. I got some-” A calloused thumb swipes blood from his face, “on you.”

He shakes his head. _It’s fine._ Souji rarely apologizes. When he does it is for the strangest things. He will never say he is sorry for a life taken, or a vicious comment made. But a little blood on Saitou’s face, and he says he’s sorry. It strikes him as odd, apologizing for blood when Saitou has already been covered in it so many times.

Blood has never bothered Souji either, unless it is his own. In which case he glares at it as though it is the most vile, contaminated substance to ever cross his path. It has not escaped his attention, the times when Souji will not let Chizuru anywhere near his blood, he would never let Kondo-san help him clean up either. It has been almost exclusively Saitou who he trusts to help him during the aftermath of particularly violent fits of seizing lungs. An honor and a curse. Nobody will feel the effects of Souji’s death quite as intimately as him.

Souji raises the back of his hand to wipe his bloody lips, but Saitou pins it back down. There is no hesitation when he leans in to kiss Souji. The blood makes it a little more challenging, a little slicker. But hair makes for an excellent way to gain leverage. Souji tries to jerk back, he will not let him. Let him learn. Let him taste acceptance in the way Saitou traces his lips with his tongue until there is not a trace of the blood his lungs expelled. There are many toxic things in this world. As much as Souji believes himself to be one, he is not.

It is not that Souji feels sorrow for himself. He does not. The problem lies in his belief that he is a tool for murder. That he is no good for anyone or anything other than killing. And with that slipping away with the progression of disease, his worth begins disintegrate. Crumbling in the same wind that will scatter ashes when there is nothing left of him. Such is the price he pays for swearing his soul to a cause that his body is too weak carry out. Saitou cannot not change Souji’s belief that he is a sword, he sees himself in a similar light. It would be hypocritical. But he can try to convince Souji that all is not lost. And that it is ok to be angry, it is ok to be hurt. Becoming overly emotional leads to unpleasant ends on the battlefield that he does not wish for any of his comrades. So he holds onto Souij now, encourages him to let loose those emotions that have been crushed under terrible pressure for too long. Saitou himself cannot offer as much as he would like, but he can do this. Create something of a safer place, where Souji can show parts of himself that nobody else has to see.

This is not pity, this is not sympathy. He owes Souji a great debt, although he has never told him of it. So yes, this is different. It is repaying a great comrade, and an even greater friend. Though he is not certain _friend_ encompasses everything between them now, it doesn’t seem to reach far enough to capture everything that they are. How do you fit all that has passed between them into a single word? There is simple, and then there is oversimplifying.

“What do you think you’re doing, Hajime-kun?” Souji’s voice is hoarse, in a way unlike how he sounds immediately after a coughing fit. Amused, but also _more._ There is the faintest crack on the end of his name that breaks over Saitou. If he did not know better he would think he was hearing things.

It is difficult to select words to match his intentions. Every one he grabs feels too light, or too heavy. So he places them back down, and tries again. Souji is not patient in many aspects of his life, but he watches now. Quietly. Focus sharp but not hard. Perhaps if he stalls Souji just a little longer, he will find what he seeks.

“Do you wish for me to cease my advances?”

“I never said that.” Souji’s head tilts, and his fingers drum against the back of Saitou’s hand. Each tap is strangely reassuring its repetitiveness. “I’m just curious why you’re here. Hijikata-san must have something you could be doing for him.”

“You need me more.” This is not exactly what he or Souji expected him to say. However, it is not untrue.

“And what exactly do you think I need?” Almost accusing, but he hears Souji bite off the prickly sentiment before it can become too powerful.

“To be reminded.” This is as close as he can come to an answer, and yet it is not a single answer at all. To remind Souji that he is alive, that his pain is valid, that he is worth more than the number of bodies his blade can amass, that he is does not have to be alone. All these things are deceptively simple. There is a web of memories, prior actions, and twisted emotions straining against his efforts. He himself is unsure of _exactly_ why he feels compelled to do this. He has several ideas, but they are quite difficult to hold on to. They are fragile, seeming to fall apart the moment he tries to examine them further.

Souji looks as though he is contemplating striking Saitou for his vagueness, but instead he lies back in what appears less like surrender and more like permission. Saitou follows him down onto the futon. They have both grown tired of wasting what time they have trying to fit speech into holes that require action. This is deceitfully familiar territory. They have been here many times before, have found comfort in each other like this. But there is something lurking inside him that is certainly not unpleasant, but seeing it reflected in Souji’s eyes almost too much. So he busies himself with striping away Souji’s stained clothing. There is a particularly large stain on the right sleeve where blood must have run down Souji’s arm before being absorbed into his garments. Death even follows them to bed it seems.

Each layer comes loose with little effort, revealing more flesh. With every new area uncovered he pauses to appreciate it. First trailing his lips along the curve of collar bones, allowing his teeth to drag just enough that breath catches and Souji’s back arches. Shoulders are nice as well. For as rapidly as Souji’s condition has declined, there is still muscle there. Firm under the pressure of his finger nails curling in. He splays his free hand against Souji’s side, fingers slotting in between ridges created by more prominent ribs. Souji’s hand comes to rest over top of his, dragging it across skin and plains of muscle to a jutting hip bone. His thumb circles the area a few times before digging in with enough force that Souji sighs. This is not exactly gentle, but it is what they enjoy. It allows them to become distracted enough that they can sever their awareness from everything except physical sensations, and the rawest forms of emotion that can only be expressed in touch.

Fingers wind themselves into his hair when he slides down to press kisses to the insides of Souji’s thighs. One scar catches his attention. He traces it with his tongue. He can remember when Souji received it. He had been there, he has always been there. Except for when Souji was wounded at Ikedaya, except for when Souji drank the ochimizu, except for when he went on this recent murdering spree- Saitou stops that train of thought cold. Regret is a useless emotion, Souji is grown man capable of making his own decisions. They have always allowed each other the freedom of a choice. And for now his choice is to nip at the inside of a knee until Souji’s hands pull insistently at strands of his hair. It feels as though he is literally tying it into knots. They will be difficult to remove later, it will probably pinch and pull. He does not mind. Knotted hair is not anything worthy of his concern. There are far worse things Souji could do.

For all the fascinating reactions he can draw from below the waist, there is another place that is more intriguing. Saitou works his way back up to the left side of Souji’s chest. There’s still a heartbeat there. He had already known this. Living creatures require their heart to pump blood should they continue to live. But that does not stop him from allowing himself a few moments to listen. He cannot hear the soreness he is sure is there. Still he presses his lips over that thumping. He has performed this type of action of for Souji more than once when they’ve slept together. Finding the places that hurt, and working in enough of an enjoyable sensation that the pain is locked away for at least a short time. This is his first time trying it on the heart, however, and Souji can only take so much.

Power and control have never really been a concern between the two of them. It is given and taken freely. Saitou does not resist when Souji flips their positions around. His clothes do not provide any more resistance than he does to Souji’s rushed yanking and tugging. Souji’s movements are often like this. Rapid as though he can hear a clocking ticking in his ears.

Time, everything seems to circle back to that one thing which can be felt but not seen. Sometimes he manages to slow Souji down, but now he will allow him free reign. It is not always this way. Frequently there is a certain element of making sure he gives as much as gets. But Souji is moving as though he _needs_ something that he thinks he can pull from Saitou. He will allow this. But he will also make sure his presence is not forgotten. His body is not a book for Souji to scour for answers. He is alive, they are alive. That is often easier to forget than it should be.

Souji must have found something of what he was looking for. He is less frantic now that they are both naked. Instead he traces methodical circles over Saitou’s abdominals, varying the pressure from leaving marks to tickling. A foot brushes up and down his calf. Souji is good at this. Using every part of his body in conjunction to create a striking menagerie of sensations that quickens his breath in time with his pulse. Lips draw into an almost smug smile against his neck. It is warm enough that his head is swimming. In his haze he can almost ignore the rattling he feels against his chest that is Souji’s lungs trying to work. Sex is simple for many people, they take it for granted that they will be able bodied enough to enjoy the experience to its fullest. He never allows himself to forget exactly how hard Souji has to work at pushing beyond his physical limitations to make this possible for them.

 _Thank you_ are two simple words. But his tongue refuses to move whenever he tries to speak them to Souji. It is probably for the best. Speaking something is often too easy. You barely notice the movements of a tongue and the vibrations of vocal chords that make speech possible. Speech does not last either. It hits the air and vanishes soon after, consumed by nothingness. There are words he wishes he could recall, but can only conjure up loose tendrils of old sentiments that had once been bound to them.

This is why he is so attuned to physical sensations. Bruises and scratches that linger are vivid signs, declaring everything they had exchanged. He is guilty of counting the number of marks Souji has left on him more than one morning after (both the visible marks, and those he can feel the ache of despite no physical evidence). Each is significant. Each served a specific purpose, conveyed a thought or feeling that had been written into his skin. Receiving marks is nice, leaving them is perhaps even better. Giving has always been a part of him.

Souji pins his shoulders with excessive force. The lines of the tatami mat bite his skin through the softness of the futon. He considers lying still, and letting him vent whatever this is. But he does not think that is what Souji actually wants. Not when each shove, or yank breaks off into something gentler. What starts off as hands pinning him down transitions into fingers trailing down his arms with feathery, tickling pressure that makes him shiver. It’s teasing and apologetic all wrapped up by a thin ribbon of desperation. The kisses to his lips and neck fluctuate between bruising, and soft. Ironically the lighter kisses hurt more. Those kisses are not shrouded in physical pain or roughness. No, they lay it all bare. The confusion, the loneliness. Souji is not even trying to conceal it any longer. This is what Saitou wanted. No more hiding. Souji hiding behind his killing strength had looked far too much like giving up. Ducking behind murder, and painting over insecurities with blood. It was all one gigantic mess designed to cover up an even bigger one.

Using sex to drag everything into the open is perhaps not the most agreed upon method. Sex sometimes carries with it manipulation of both sensations and emotions. It is not like that for them. This is the only place he sees Souji slip off the mask entirely. Is Saitou himself a place? His thoughts are admittedly more disjointed than usual. It is Souji’s fault, those hands are tracing shapes along his shoulder blades in a decidedly distracting manner. But that does not matter.

Thoughts do not have to be entirely clear or complete to be honest. And he can tell enough from what has passed this evening. Saitou understands that Souji is confused by his own actions. He sacrificed his humanity for Kondo-san, and in doing so destroyed the image Kondo-san had of him. He is stung by what he sees as the betraying Kondo-san’s wishes, but will not admit to feeling any loss. He lives for Kondo-san, and yet that alone is not enough to have driven him this far. There is more. Not even Saitou himself is that simple.

But swords _are_ that simple, and that is what the two of them are. It is a vicious trap that they have both walked into of their own free will. Fully prepared to cut down whoever they are aimed at. Now it seems that they are not such perfect weapons. They are efficient, powerful. But not perfect. No matter how many times they have forged themselves in the images of their blades, the flames have never been hot enough to truly purge them of that which makes them human. If they had been successful in that endeavor then he would not be reaching out to take Souji’s hands in his. He would not be kissing away the sweat on Souji’s temples trying to memorize the odd taste of fever, salt, and something else almost sweet with bitter undertones.

“Hajime.” It is difficult to look into Souji’s eyes when he says his name like _that,_ and while his voice is torn by strain lingering in his throat _._ But Saitou knows he will regret it if he does not take every opportunity they have left. The worst assumption he has ever seen made is the one of believing you will have another chance. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

It is probably true. But Souji doesn’t seem to mind. It does not stop him from pulling Saitou’s hips towards him, or nibbling at his lips. When his breath catches it spurs Souji to do strange things like kiss him on the nose. Such actions deserve reciprocation. He was never focused on his own pleasure. And Souji already gives more than he has. He grinds into Souji in hopes that locking their bones together will cage Souji against the realization that even if he has ‘lost’ Kondo-san he is still admirable to Saitou. He does not hate himself, and he could not hate Souji without hating himself first. There is too much shared between them.

They are heading toward a place neither of them are entirely at ease with. It is a small miracle that they have not hurt each other more through this. Hands so used to swinging steel are surprising adept at grasping hands, and tracing over flesh. Still he doubts that either of them will walk away from this unscathed. Nothing is for free. This will cost them something in the end. But for this moment at least, it is beneficial.

Kissing Souji is sometimes more about exchanging breath than pressure on lips. Inhaling all of Souji’s suffering, and breathing reassurance back into his lungs. If he could purify each breath Souji takes he would. That is not possible. Reaching inside of lungs, and pulling out pain and disease is beyond his grasp. But he can understand, can support. Souji has always spurned pity, pushed it away with vicious force and bruising scorn. But this is not the same. All he wishes is for Souji to understand what he is trying to tell him with his actions.

Souji’s fingers slide to cup the back of his head. For a brief moment he wonders how many times they have left. But that is forgotten quickly to make room for the fuzzy warmth that fills his head when Souji’s thumb circles the nape of his neck.

Saitou kisses up and down Souji’s throat, alternating pressure and suction until he hears a (wheezing) gasp. He pays especial attention to where a pulse jumps under his lips. The life it belongs to is precious. Each beat is part of a rhythm Saitou is determined to blaze into his memory. Someday, if he is to be alone without his comrade, he will be able to replay memories to the steady beating that he tastes now.

The hand in his hair tightens, and they seem to curl further into each other. This is their way. Using their knowledge of themselves and each other to them closer and closer to that point where nothing but the barest of emotions, and thoughts are present. Souji knows exactly how to press a knee into Saitou’s leg, and drag finger nails along his jawbone. Hard enough that Saitou has too close his eyes for a moment to process it all, but soft enough that there won’t be any visible marks in the morning. This is strictly between the two of them. There is no room for the comments of the others between what they need to tell each other. Satiou’s hand grasping Souji’s inner thigh, brushing upwards before slipping back down. _Just how badly are you hurting?_ Souji’s teeth grazing along his chest. _Can you help me forget?_ Of course. Souji should be allowed to pour out the acidic thoughts that have been burning his hands and corroding his mind for far too long. Replace them with images of how Saitou can see him.

There are layers to Souji. Each one bending shadows and light to cast himself in the most unflattering image he can conjure up. Illness is one he cannot help. But Saitou can look beyond prominent ribs, and sickly gray skin. He can still see strength, and every color of Souji’s life. Souji banishes human emotions to the farthest corners of himself in favor of becoming a tool for murder. Saitou can still hear every whisper they make to his own feelings. Souji surrounds himself in shadows, and holds onto death’s hand. Saitou thinks the darkness only makes the light that cracks through appear even brighter. For as close as Souji is to the end of lives (his own or others), he has put more sincerity and strength into living than any other.

It works in reserve as well. He is certain nobody but Souji could manage to strip him down to this. Nobody else could manage to unwind the tight strands of duty and honor that have kept emotions bound so tightly that they have only emerged in small, convenient doses. There is nothing small about this. Nothing insignificant about the way Souji shows him new things about himself every time they do this. Nothing less than incredible in the way they move together imperfectly, seeking something only the other can provide.

Souji’s fingers lace through his and squeeze. The force is greater than normal, prodding. “What is it?”

“Do you think I could-” How rare for Souji to be unable to complete a sentence. To swallow words back down that battered throat in favor of a wandering gaze and crooked half smile.

He does not need to finish. The meaning is not lost on Saitou. It is not often that they make specific requests of each other. It’s easier to remain silent, to let the flow of things follow whatever course. They have usually tossed words aside completely by now. Opening their mouths when every touch is akin to lightning leaping from point to point is a risk they avoid taking. Such situations create the atmosphere for charged statements that have no place being spoken between two such as them. And yet Saitou is pleased. Souji is asking for something that _he_ wants. Acknowledging a wish of his own choosing that has nothing to do with Kondo-san, or ochimizu, or anything but what he desires.

He nods, and rolls from his side to his back not missing the way Souji’s eyes widen briefly before darkening. There is a sudden moment of anxiety. Being exposed this way will never not make him feel vulnerable. You cannot spend your whole life learning to keep your innermost thoughts and feelings concealed behind steadfast silence, and then not be at least a little alarmed by showing all these scattered pieces of a life to someone else. But the anxiety fades as quickly as it came on. There is nothing to fear from Souji, who has given him an unrivaled trust and respect. For everything he gives up to Souji, he gains something in return. There have been times where their roles were reversed from what they are now. It is the memory of Souji giving, giving, giving that allows him to release any doubts.

He gains as he yields now. Souji dips down to press their mouths together. The touch of tongues fills his mouth with the taste of blood, medicine, and frustration. Yes, frustration has a flavor. Slicing him with a sharp sourness that he tries to lick away.

It is not all bitter. He can also taste his own name, and sentiments of gratitude that will never make it past lips. Hands sweep dangerously low. Scratching into his skin until restraint flakes away, and he lets something that might be Souji’s name compete with the sounds of skin sliding against skin.

A self-satisfied smile stiches its way onto Souji’s lips, drawing them back just enough as to where he can see a flash of white teeth. It does not last long. Saitou’s fingers digging into hips snaps something in Souji. He leans down pressing their foreheads together. His smile is replaced with the tightness of anticipation, but amusement still softens lines sharpened by loss of weight, and gain of burden. Seeing him like this, not just alive but living is rewarding. For all that Souji has had stolen from him, there is still something about him that has never changed, never wavered. That is what Saitou reaches for when he lays a hand against Souji’s face, thumb pressing into a cheek bone. This immeasurable essence of the human being that lives behind eyes either red or green is what he will miss most. He has never expected life to be fair or kind. But thoughts of certain ends manage to pierce his chest with the tiniest pins of bitterness.

They both seem to sense whenever things become too messy. When thoughts drift to places that they have promised themselves (and each other) not to go. It becomes too easy to forget their situation. When physical sensations take a secondary position to what they are trying to convey. So they bring the focus back around to safe distractions.

Languid motions of hands follow hard muscle until it gives way to areas of soft sensitivity. There is a certain amount of pleasure in simply admiring Souji’s body through touch. The structure of bones beneath skin, bound by muscle. All working together to create angles and plains that look decidedly pleasing in the softness of the lamplight, which lends some of its own pale warmth to Souji. He wears that borrowed glow well. He wears the shadows where the light does not reach just as gracefully.

Saitou sets a brisk pace. Kissing whatever comes within his reach. The inside of an elbow, a shoulder, a jawbone. He does not linger on any one spot, trying to shove Souji up against the multitude of sensations just as Souji presses him harder into the futon. It seems to work. Breaths are ragged against his ear. It is not as though Souji’s breathing is ever exactly smooth lately. But there are certain things you can sense when you sleep with someone, and he knows tuberculosis is not responsible for the staccato inhalations Souji makes. Then they are kissing again. Hard and fast. Almost more teeth and tongue than lips. This is messy but safe. Mind numbing in the jolting sensations that pulse away clear thought.

When they finally come together it takes a moment to find a comfortable rhythm. There is always a second or two of disorientation, perhaps a small amount of amazement. And then they’re moving again. It is not difficult to anticipate Souji’s motions and move to meet them. This is how they remind each other. _I know you, as well as you know me._ They probably know things about each other that they do not know about themselves. For every inch of yourself that you know so well, there are blind spots. Places that only another person can see. They guard each other’s blind spots here as they do on the battlefield. They tend to be rough with each other’s bodies in an attempt to be gentle to their hearts. Their movements are sure, powerful.

Until Souji slows in distraction. He is looking down at him with something that Saitou would hazard to call affection, were it coming from anybody but Souji. The stalling of their pace allows him time to feel embarrassment tickling his neck and cheeks. The smile that stretches on Souji’s face makes his eyes narrow. Drawing such a response from Saitou had been intentional. There are ways to deal with Souji’s antics. He is well versed by now in paying him back for his tricks. Legs wrap around a waist, thighs locking ribs between them. His forehead butts against Souji’s shoulder when rough laughter seems to steal the resistance from his spine. Still he can’t help but smile a little in return.

Their distraction does not last long. They are ever aware of time. For every morning that finds them, it is one less night they have to experience this. This will not take until morning. Not when they’ve both reached the point where the end is in sight, and they are racing to catch it. Chasing thoughts, and feelings, and sensations that topple over one another into a cascade of encouragement. It builds and builds, shoving against every part of them until they push each other past that dizzying breaking point. Gasps and moans are swallowed up by sliding lips and tattered breath.

Saitou believes he has accomplished what he set out to do. Souji appears quiet and content. More at ease in his own skin than he has seemed in a long time. Perhaps now Souji will have something he can hold to when he believes that his life has no meaning outside of murder. Nobody died here tonight. But neither of them can deny that there was something of great value passed between them.

That shared something might come back to bite them. He knows how far they have come since they first started this. They now know exactly what excites, and what soothes. Their hands always seem to end up woven together, even if they do not remember exactly how they had gotten that way. They move closer together after they finish instead of parting. And he can no longer claim these actions are simply out of a search for warmth guided by a sleepy fog. No, he is acutely aware of Souji when he makes the decision to lean into him until there is no space between their shoulders and sides.

These post coital activities have become normal, but the kiss Souji offers him is new. Soft, and serene. Occasionally they well exchange a few tired words afterwards, but there never seems to be any point in kissing. Kissing is nearly always a part of sleeping with someone, but to do it afterwards. That has always seemed to be crossing a line. But Souji has never been one to obey boundaries, and Saitou is touched. Because he is painfully aware of the risk involved in such a gesture. He accepts it anyway. And squeezes Souji’s hand in return. He wants to ask why, but cannot bring himself to question something given so freely.

“Don’t look so surprised.” Souji’s eyelids are weighted down, but his smile is not.

Saitou shakes his head, “I am not surprised. Simply curious.”

“Sure, Hajime.” Souji runs a hand along Saitou’s ribs. “Don’t worry about it. It was just something I wanted to do.”

His fingers trace designs on the back of Souji’s hand. “Thank you.”

Souji begins to drift to sleep. He will not explain the kiss. Saitou had not figured he would. He always dodges talking about feelings, death, their relationship… It is his way of trying to protect both Saitou and himself. Words complicate things. They tangle around all these fragile thoughts and drag them to where they are exposed to the ugly harshness of reality. Where they become a vulnerability that neither of them can afford. In all practicality what they are doing right now is also too much. Too open, too close. But there are so many things they have given up, or had taken. It is not in his nature to say that he _deserves_ anything, however, it is hard not to feel as though they are owed this much. Just a few peaceful moments that provide some relief from the collapse of everything from Souji’s health to an era falling down around them. No, a handful of sixty second increments of tranquility is not asking for much. But that is not precisely what this is.

This is more active than that. They are sharing. Sharing something that not many are lucky enough to have. It does not matter to Saitou what this is called. He knows trust, and he knows kindness (Souji would gag if he were ever to call him kind to his face). And that is a gift. War and disease are conspiring against them. The two of them have never been all that lucky. But there is luck inside of bad luck. For all that has gone wrong, they have not had to bear it alone. They have never thanked each other explicitly for that constant presence. For small favors or thoughtful gestures, yes. But never for the very act of existing beside one another. Thanking someone for living their life as a part of yours blurs too many lines. But he thinks Souji understands. And for all Souji spews about not asking for help, he knows that he is grateful. And that is enough. It will have to be. They are not owed forever, but they have been given this. Have given each other this.

**Author's Note:**

> So there you go! 
> 
> This took me much longer than I intended, because university is a pain in the ass and I'm slow. Hopefully it turned out ok, because I was so frustrated with just trying to find the time to write. And I ended up completely redoing a few parts, which made it take longer. 
> 
> Despite that frustration, I love Souji/Saitou and I really enjoyed writing them again.


End file.
